


Beacon Hills Vigilantes Anonymous

by spookywoods



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Angst and Humor, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-03 05:19:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8698600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookywoods/pseuds/spookywoods
Summary: Erica sighed and looked around the pit. "Okay!" she yelled. "Hellfire--"("It's Halefire," Isaac corrected under his breath.) "--and Silver Knight, Beacon Hills' latest vigilante crime fighters, have suddenly teamed up and I want to know why. Get on it." - OR - The Superpowers AU where Derek is a rich vigilante seeking vengeance, Scott is a coroner by day (sometimes night, too) and crime fighter vigilante most nights, and Stiles invents things to help (not usually) along the way. Lydia is a genius, Allison is a detective, and Erica is the newspaper editor who isn't afraid to report the truth about the political mafia, the police collusion, or the fact that the demonic vigilante stalking the city put nipples on his suit.





	1. Present Day - BHPD

**Author's Note:**

> I started this with thecruixe years ago for a big bang, and as a gift to myself and to her, I plan on finishing it over the next month. It's a bit ridiculous at times. This is a mix of lighthearted superhero madness and dark, Batmanesque justice, so there is violence and minor character death, but not in great detail. I'll tag other things as necessary.

Mold. The Beacon Hills Main Precinct smelled like mold and bad coffee. Jackson couldn’t believe he’d been forced to come down there again, after the crap the police had been pulling with his recent cases. First they let those damn freak vigilantes get away with mauling one of his clients, then kept insisting there was a mounting case against those caped idiots. But Jackson knew for a fact they were still masquerading around the city in the name of justice. Because if that psycho Matt was good for anything, it was creeping around undetected and taking pictures. Jackson knew better than anyone about those pictures.

The elevator doors opened and he strolled out frowning. The homicide floor was a mess, as usual, of oversized desks with ruffled papers sticking out everywhere. One wall was lined with filing cabinets, the other a makeshift kitchen covered in Hot Pocket residue and eternal coffee stains, and the far wall was dirt and dust that at some point had been floor-to-ceiling windows. He hated coming up for morning meetings and having the sun in his face. By now, darkness had settled but Jackson still felt a headache coming on from the fluorescent sheen overhead.

The place was deserted. Of course the Argent detective wasn’t here. Jackson was completely on time, so where the hell was she? He’d only come by because it was Allison who asked. She might be the only Argent that didn’t have a giant stick wedged up their--

“Jackson.”

He whirled around and saw a familiar tanned face. “McCall? What, is there a dead body somewhere closeby?”

Jackson noted this was the first time he’d seen the guy out of his coroner’s  jacket. He was wearing a leather jacket and some cheap jeans. The sheepish look on the other man’s face turned to a glare. “I’m looking for Allison.”

“Get in line,” Jackson snarked. “She called me up here for some stupid evidence clarification. This is a monumental waste of my time. I charge $500 an hour.” Jackson pulled a signature grin and added, “Bill her for me.”

He went to walk past McCall, but the man reached out and grabbed his arm. “She was supposed to meet for coffee over an hour ago. When did you talk to her?”

Stopping, Jackson furrowed his brow and glanced at the big analog clock on the wall.

8:04.

The call had come almost an hour before.

“It’s not my problem when you get stood up,” he said, hoping the words would mask his rising heartbeat. He grabbed McCall’s hand and threw it off his arm. “If you’ll let me go, I have a life to get back to. Not that you’d know what that is like.”

“Oh no, Jackson,” came a voice from the other side of the room. Jackson and McCall both jumped.

The blood rushed out of Jackson’s face.

It was Matt. And he had a gun trained on Allison’s skull. “I think you’ll find your life is all right here.” Matt held up a folder and threw it on the floor. Allison looked like she’d been crying and for a moment Jackson felt for her. But he had to stop Matt from saying anything incriminating. He had to stop Matt at any cost.

“What are you doing, Daehler?” Jackson rattled. His fear was rising as he stared at the folder. He didn’t need to guess what was in it. “You should be photographing the fundraiser. Or the Cyclones’ game. Does Finstock know you’re here?”

“I don’t work for Finstock,” the photographer replied. “But you already knew that.”

Jackson nodded and was about to say something, but McCall had brushed past him and was approaching in a slow march with his hands to the ceiling.

“Look, whatever this is about, you don’t need a gun,” he said. His eyes never left Allison’s, and Jackson saw McCall mouth the words _Are you okay?_

Allison gave him a brief nod.

Jackson watched Scott look past the pair of them at something outside the windows. Was that a figure on the roof across the precinct? Jackson blinked. There was nothing there.

Matt started laughing. “Oh, this is great, McCall. Don’t think I don’t know about _your_ other life. It’s funny, when you stop to think about it. Because Allison here has made it her mission in life to distance herself from her vigilante family. But then there you are!” Matt started looking crazier than usual as he let the gun flop around in his hand while he talked. “The masked crusader, the hero of the city. Our very own Batman.” Matt’s smile faded and he glared over at an open mouthed Scott McCall. Daehler continued, “Only you’re not Batman, are you, Scott? You’re the _Silver_ Knight.”

Jackson’s eyes went wide. Allison started crying.

“If you cared so much about justice,” Matt spat. “You’d reign down your fury on the real criminals, like the mastermind behind all the corruption in this town. You and the red-eyed fiend would do something about old--”

But in a moment, Allison had bent down and flipped around, kicking Matt in the knee. She’d fallen on her back, a gun suddenly finding its way into her hands, and before Jackson knew it, she’d fired six shots into Matt’s chest.

Matt fell back into the glass, his face in shock before it went slack as he slid, leaving a trail of blood down the windows.

“Allison!” Scott flew to her side and helped her up. “Are you okay?”

She stuffed the gun in the waist of her pants and returned the man’s frantic hug. “I’m fine, Scott.” She pulled away and met his eyes. “I’m fine, really.”

“He had a gun on you for over an hour.”

Jackson felt the need to say, “The man was clearly off his meds.”

Scott and Allison looked from Jackson to the folder on the floor between them.

“I’d like to know why he had me call you,” Allison questioned. “Why he seemed to think the contents of that folder were something to bargain over.” She bent down and picked up the folder. Jackson clenched his jaw as he watched her fingers slide the cover open.  

“I can explain,” he rushed forward.

Allison’s eyes locked with his. And she smiled. The bitch smiled when she said, “I’d like to hear this.”

Jackson was a lawyer, Beacon Hill’s best lawyer, actually, and he could talk his way out of anything. Including the felonies he was sure were evidenced in that folder.

 


	2. Three months earlier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott set the clothes on the Ikea dining table they’d assembled the week before. “I think we need to stop using the cleaners on 29th. Mr. Petrova got a little suspicious about the blood on your tights.” 
> 
> Derek gave Scott a flat stare. 
> 
> “Don’t worry, he still believes we work at a butcher’s shop,” Scott added. Because someone wearing tights while butchering was a completely normal occurrence.

“Scott!” 

Stiles rushed up the steps of the dilapidated townhome clutching a newspaper. His messenger bag bounced on his back and left him off balance when he reached the top step. 

A hand darted out and grabbed his forearm, successfully averting a repeat of last week’s fall down the worn steps, though he cringed at the pressure. It would bruise in a minute or two.

“You need to get these stairs fixed,” Stiles rolled his eyes and tried to shrug out of the death grip. He could make out Derek Hale from the other side of the banister. The man still clutched his arm and managed to look gloomier than usual. It was like the shadows just found him and had a love affair with his stupidly sharp features. Stiles met his eyes. “These stairs have it out for me.” 

Derek let go of his arm and turned around. “You seem to have it out for them,” he replied. “Scott’s picking up the dry cleaning.” 

Stiles sneered for a moment then followed  _ big, tall and gloomy _ into what had once been a study. While he imagined it smelled of books, leather, and intellectualism at one time, now the room reeked of burnt wood and a month old evergreen wall freshener. Come to think of it, that needed switching out, because now the room kinda smelled like sweat and--burnt things. That’s kinda what Derek Hale was--a sweaty, burnt thing. 

He set down his bag and fell into the folded out lawn chair. 

“This,” Stiles pointed, and threw the newspaper down on the coffee table. “You need to stop letting those photographers get you at the scene.”

He watched as Derek picked up the paper and scowled. 

“They didn’t even get a good shot of the suit in this,” he spat. “Who are these amateurs?”

Stiles gawked and sat back. “You shouldn’t have let them get a picture at all. Part of the deal was you and Scott would help each other stay under the radar.” Stiles licked his lips and added, “The more pictures, the more evidence the police commissioner is gonna have to build a case against us.” 

Derek dropped and started doing push ups. “You mean,” he breathed, “Your father?”

Stiles squinted and looked away. He hated when Derek started his impromptu workouts. The guy didn’t need to work out, for the love of god, he was a supernatural bag of muscles. “Hey,” Stiles said. “If you get caught it won’t be because I didn’t steer my dad in the wrong direction a few times. It will be because you’re a vain, self-absorbed, son of a--”

“I’m back,” Scott yelled from the first floor. The front door slammed shut and after the sounds of his pounding steps, Stiles’ best friend appeared in the door with a handful of clothes covered in plastic. “I took your cape to Miss So and Sew’s,” Scott said to Derek. 

Stiles found himself rolling his eyes at the thought of Derek’s stupid cape, which was more trouble than it was worth--which was nothing. It had no value, no purpose, except to make Derek feel like a comic book hero, or something. Stiles tried tirelessly to get Derek to stop wearing it every time the thing ended up mutilated, or burned, but the furball insisted he needed it. Something about his image. Hell if Stiles knew.

Scott set the clothes on the Ikea dining table they’d assembled the week before. “I think we need to stop using the cleaners on 29th. Mr. Petrova got a little suspicious about the blood on your tights.” 

Derek gave Scott a flat stare. 

“Don’t worry, he still believes we work at a butcher’s shop,” Scott added. Because someone wearing tights while butchering was a completely normal occurrence. 

Stiles decided he would bring up the newspaper feature while Scott glared at Derek, who they both knew was considering sending the Russian dry cleaner to meet the fishes at the bottom of Beacon Hills Reservoir. 

“You made the papers again,” Stiles beamed. Some of it was pride, because after all, this was his best friend saving lives and taking names, but the other half of it was a bit of  _ I told you so _ foreshadowing. Stiles clearly remembered telling them the press had got wind of their nighttime patrols, that they had better not use any main roads, and they definitely couldn’t ride out in the open in costume. Not that Derek needed a costume to be recognized. Almost everyone had seen “Hellfire’s” mug shot on the news six months ago. Derek made the mistake of coming up with his own alias, Halefire, and since no one knew who he really was, they assumed he’d said “Hellfire” because of his demonic red eyes and deformed features. 

“Gah, we’ll have to be more careful,” Scott flopped over on the recliner. He broke his staring war with Derek and started flipping through his phone. Derek went back to his push ups. “Who has patrol duty tonight?” 

“That would be you, Scott,” Derek replied without a hitch in his movements. “I’ve been canvassing all day.”

“Not all of us have that luxury.” Scott sat up and whined, “This isn’t fair. Some of us have day jobs, Derek.”

“Well, when you’ve had the luxury of both your parents dying in a fire, come and talk to me about what’s fair.” He raised his dark brows and sent Scott a scowl. “Start on 19th and Powell, there was a break in twenty minutes ago.” 

“But Derek...”

“I could go,” Stiles blurted as he fumbled his way through his messenger bag to show them what he’d been working on all day. 

“No,” Derek and Scott both answered. 

Stiles sighed and pointed to the bag. “I need to try out this new system I made for jamming traffic cameras.” 

“Fine,” Scott sighed. “You can come with me. Nothing ever happens on Wednesdays anyway.” 

Derek’s phone vibrated on the table and in the blink of an eye, he’d risen, rushed over to it, and scrolled down. Frowning at Scott, he said, “If by ‘nothing’ you mean ‘bank robberies’, then yes.” 

Scott bolted to his feet and ripped open one of the newly cleaned outfits. “Where?”

“California Regional,” Derek sighed. 

Stiles whipped out his latest invention and held it up. A black box of buttons with a small antenna. “Perfect testing circumstances.” 

Derek rolled his eyes and turned to Scott. “You’re responsible for him,” he smirked. “I’m not swooping in to save the damsel in distress this time.”

“Hey!” Stiles exclaimed. “I would’ve been perfectly able to get out of those ropes in time if  _ someone  _ hadn’t set half the bunker on fire.” 

Derek pulled off his white shirt and fell the the ground again, this time, he was doing one-armed push ups. 

“It happens,” he glared. 

###

It turns out, despite having thwarted about six other bank robberies since getting bitten by a dying vigilante creature, Scott still had no go-to plan for stopping criminals in the act. He had let Derek take the break in, insisting that he and Stiles could handle the robbery.

“You want to chase them?” Stiles shouted. They’d pulled up to the curb across the street from the bank, masked behind the tinted windows of Derek’s modified Camaro. 

Scott sighed and clutched the steering wheel. Even behind the silvery knight’s mask, Stiles could tell Scott was agitated. “Why couldn’t Derek come do this one?” 

“You know why!” Stiles said. “You round up the robbers and leave them to be found, sometimes in--” Stiles smiled as he remembered the time Scott left a team of art thieves tied up and hanging off the scaffolding of the Museum of Modern Art, each of their faces buried in the others’ crotch. “Sometimes in compromising positions,” he smiled. “But Derek? The guy doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand that punishment has to fit the crime.”

Stiles cringed as some of Derek’s solo jobs flashed through his mind. The serial mugger on St. Charles Street. That guy had barely done much damage, scared a few old ladies, taken less than $1000 worth of stuff. But he’d ended up dead, strung up on a lamp post with a cardboard sign that read “Criminal” written in blood. 

“You’re a good guy, Scott,” Stiles added. “And Derek,” he sighed. “Derek is a drama queen with a murderous streak.” A good person, yes, Stiles admitted, but someone with power in a lot of pain. Movement on the other side of the street caught his eye and he slapped Scott’s arm. “Hey, look! They’re out!” 

They watched as six guys stormed out of the bank and a black van drove up. They shoved a few large duffle bags into the back, jumped inside, and sped off. Scott smiled and threw the car in drive. 

“You got that thing ready?” he asked.  

Stiles nodded and flipped the power switch. The device was plugged into the car’s cigarette lighter, which had seventy times more power than an average car. If Derek was good for one thing, it was having the money to make some advantageous changes to the getaway car. Unfortunately, he wouldn’t give Stiles any grants for gadget development. 

“Once you get them stopped, I’ll throw it on and you’ll be good to go.” 

They tailed the van, and Scott put the car on autopilot, which was a mix of cruise control and camera sensors. After five blocks, Scott shot the tire shredding darts and the van slowed. 

“Now,” he ordered. 

Stiles threw the switch and held his breath. 

Then the Camaro’s horn started blaring, and Stiles swung around. The lights of all the other cars on the road were flashing, their horns blaring too. 

“Shit,” he cursed. 

Scott groaned, “Stiles!” He opened the door to jump out but Stiles grabbed him. 

“You can’t go out there! It didn’t work, the cameras are still on.” 

“I can’t let them get away,” Scott explained. “Let me go, I can handle the cameras.” 

Scott shot out in front of them and ran up to the van. He ripped open the driver’s door and pulled the driver out. Stiles watched as Scott immobilized each robber, sometimes with just one hit. He had them in a pile and was about to tie them to a street light when he stopped suddenly and looked past the black van. Stiles followed his gaze and his stomach sank. 

A Crown Vic had pulled up in front of the getaway van and a pretty young lady cop was approaching the scene with her gun raised in one hand and a radio in the other. 

“Great,” Stiles murmured. He crawled into the driver’s seat and started the car. But Scott hadn’t moved. He was still staring at the cop. Stiles went to lay on the horn, but realized it was still blaring. He threw the car in drive, put the pedal to the metal and shot toward Scott. 

His friend turned just in time to jump and land on the hood as Stiles braked and turned the wheel. Almost getting hit seemed to shake Scott from his loverboy trance, and he backflipped off the car and flung himself inside. 

“That,” Stiles breathed. “Was close.”

“Too close,” Scott added. 

Stiles took a sharp left and got them the hell out of there. He grinned and couldn’t wait to tell Derek he’d been driving the Camaro, something he was strictly not allowed to do. 

“That was Allison,” Scott said. “The homicide detective that comes in all the time.” 

“The one you’re in love with?” Stiles asked. “Do you think she recognized you?” 

Scott sighed, “I don’t know. She caught me off guard.”

“Shit,” Stiles said. 

Scott pulled off his mask. “We might have a bigger problem,” he explained. “Remember that chemical warehouse theft two weeks ago? The one where Derek and I chased a decoy van?”

“How could I forget?” Stiles frowned. “Derek came back and tore the couch to shreds.” That was why the guy couldn’t have nice things. That was precisely why they shopped at Ikea and not Pottery Barn. 

“The guy we caught in the warehouse had said someone named Harris hired them.” Scott pushed his palms against his thighs nervously. “When I threw the last guy on the ground back there, he turned to the driver and said something about Harris,” Scott cringed. “That Harris was going to kill them for not coming through.” 

“Who the hell is Harris? What kind of name is that?” Stiles mused. “That’s not exactly one of the big gangster boss names we’re used to hearing.” 

“I don’t know, Stiles,” Scott replied. “But all those chemicals and now all this money? That means something big is going on.” 

Stiles shivered and rolled up the windows. “We need curly fries,” he said. He took the next right and headed for the closest Frosty Zone drive thru. “Curly fries and a plan.” 

###

“Something big is going on,” Erica said, and kicked off her stilettos. Being three inches shorter made her feel a little less authoritative but it was only Boyd and Lahey in the pit this late. Part of her was glad it was them. 

Lahey dicked around, figuratively and literally, but he held his reporting to the highest standard. He’d broke the story on the county chemical plant paying off OSHA inspectors to look the other way at discrepancies, and Erica had taken the heat from city hall. It meant they were on to something. 

It wasn’t a coincidence then when Boyd came to her with the chemical warehouse break in. Undisclosed items stolen, Hellfire  _ and  _ the Silver Knight videotaped on the scene,  _ for heaven’s sake, _ she salivated at the thought they were connected. Erica held the folder in her hands and it felt like ammunition. It was what they needed to get their feet grounded and build the story. 

She threw the folder on the men’s shared deskspace.

“Look, Reyes,” Lahey began to stand, but she tossed him a dirty look and he sat back down. “We know you think this all fits into the  _ ‘Argents are the puppetmaster of everything’  _ theory, but sometimes there are just criminals. Breaking the law.” 

Boyd nodded in agreement, “All across the board.” 

Erica smiled, “I’m not saying  _ this  _ is the Argents…” 

“But you’re saying it’s the Argents?” Boyd suggested. 

“I have it on good authority that Victoria Argent shared a dorm with Michelle Ellensmith for three semesters at--” 

“Are you listening to yourself?” Lahey interrupted. 

Erica narrowed her eyes. “I put all the info I found on Ellensmith in the file. She’s a high ranking supervisor of the division that inspected that chemical plant.” Erica leaned over and smiled at Boyd, “Look at her a little closer, will you? And,” Erica looked him up and down. He’d taken off his tie and rolled up the sleeves of his white button down. She found him almost irresistible in starchy, white formal wear.  _ Almost.  _ She straightened up and smirked at Boyd. “Get back to me with answers.” 

Boyd and Lahey watched her as she walked away, she was sure, as she heard Lahey mutter, “You aren’t getting laid unless you do this, are you?” 

She glanced back and saw Boyd pick up the file. “Not a chance,” he sighed and met her eyes. He chuckled, “Not a chance.” 

 


End file.
